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A.R.Yngve
PARRY'S PROTOCOL
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Chapter 13
MAYWOOD
EAST CENTRAL LOS ANGELES
SEPTEMBER 12
The night sky was illuminated by the smoke from the districts to the east, casting an orange shimmer over the streets where the taxicab dropped off Abram.
One block away, a couple of palmtrees were burning in solitude, like huge bent candles. He hurried across a parking lot, looking nervously in all directions. He half-ran to the two-story block of flats, up the stairway, and stopped breathless outside the door. He supported himself against the balcony parapet and caught his breath, before knocking at the door.
The window next to the door lit up, and someone pulled aside a curtain's edge. A small periscope glistened into view and disappeared -- a rattling of keys and lock-chains followed. Suddenly the door slammed open, and the lights went out inside. Abram gazed fearfully into the dark, his back against the parapet.
"Come on in!" a voice hissed from the darkness.
"I'm Lemercier... are you Bruno?" Abram managed to gasp.
"Yes, get the hell inside. They can spot us from the street!"
Abram glanced over his shoulder, held the briefcase against his chest, and threw himself into the dark doorway. The door closed loudly behind him and the lights were turned on. He got to his feet with a speed that belied his age, spun around with the briefcase held as a shield -- and stood facing Giordano Bruno, who was locking the door with several keys. Giordano was a crew-cut Asian in his twenties, holding a sawed-off shotgun by one stringy arm. He wore army boots, gray camouflage pants, and a black T-shirt -- plus a huge survival knife in a shoulder-holster. He picked up an iron-bar and placed it across the door by two cramp-irons. With his hard eyes fixed on Abram, he finished the locking procedure. Giordano took a step forward and raised his shotgun in Abram's direction.
"Got I.D.?" he asked.
Abram fumbled inside his jacket and got out his driver's license, his membership card for the psychologists' association, and an old bank ID. Giordano studied them closely before returning them. His eyes narrowed, looking at Abram again.
"A shrink, huh? What've you got to do with Dr. Rymowicz?"
Abram slowly backed into the room, following the gun barrels with his eyes, without lowering the bag he held before him.
"Take away the gun," he said slowly. "I am unarmed. I came here to ask a few questions; but if you're going to threaten me, I will leave right now."
"Okay, but no tape recorders. Hang up the coat and case over there." Giordano pointed his gun at a corner. "But first -- spread'em."
He searched Abram and found no weapons; then he seemed to relax. While Abram put away his coat and briefcase, Giordano switched on the TV set and went out into the kitchen. Abram sat down in the combined TV- and living-room sofa. His gaze wandered across the untidy room. The walls were lined with film posters showing heavily armed, karate-kicking men; next to them, big posters of automatic weapons held by large-breasted women. He chuckled. When Giordano returned from the kitchen with two beer cans, Abram had begun watching the TV news broadcast -- the reports from the riots continued to arrive from airborne reporters. He looked up.
"It's already begun, what Rymowicz warned us about," Giordano said as he handed Abram the other beer can.
Abram asked: "Did he ever tell his students that... 'the outside world will explode under your feet any day'?"
Giordano stared excitedly at Abram, and slumped down in an armchair.
"That's exactly what he said! He said we would soon see a second civil war, and that we'd better choose the winning side, or leave the country." Then his enthusiasm changed into aggressive suspicion: "What are you doing to him, anyway?" Giordano gestured with his can, spilling drops of beer on the table between them.
"Calm down, Giordano. I took on Patrick's case just a week ago, and I'm trying to see that he gets a better treatment than he's received for the last couple of years." Giordano attentively listened to Abram's words. "But in order to convince the medical authorities of that, I must be able to prove that he's more sane than they have assumed."
Giordano interrupted him indignantly: "Dr. Rymowicz is not crazy! They're just trying to break him, like they did when he was teaching at the university." He drank some beer and wrinkled his forehead.
Abram cocked his head and let his fingertips touch, while he leaned forward in Giordano's direction.
"I think we both want to help Dr. Rymowicz," he said in a sincere tone. "And you, or the others in his last class, might give me important facts that the police have missed. How well did you know each other? Did you know the student who... lost his life in that incident?"
Giordano's slumped head shot up. "What've the other students told you?" he said nervously.
Abram calmed him: "You're the first one I got in touch with."